Dancing Devil range
“Ed Weed recognized it,” said Uncle Andy sadly. “He’d seen it lots of
times. But Johnny, darn his soul, won’t tell what he done with it. Just
sets there and shakes his head. Yuh see,” Uncle Andy cleared his throat
harshly, “yuh see, Johnny and Nell Frawley was due to get married
Christmas Eve.”
“Loveliest girl I ever knew,” said Aunt Judy wearily.
“I’m wonderin’ if Johnny would talk with me,” said Hashknife.
Uncle Andy shook his head. “I don’t believe he would. Won’t talk to
anybody, not even a lawyer. Stubborn’s a bull calf.”
“He might,” said Aunt Judy hopefully, but added, “He ort to. Nobody can
help him, if he won’t talk.”
“Let’s try it,” suggested Hashknife. “He can’t no more than refuse.”
“All right,” replied Uncle Andy. “We’ll try, but don’t say I didn’t warn
yuh, Hashknife.”
* * * * *
They found Nick McGarvin in the office. He didn’t think that Johnny
would talk, especially to strangers, but was willing for them to try.
Johnny Davidson was a good-looking young cowboy, but he had stubborn
eyes and a stubborn chin. Uncle Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to
him, but he didn’t seem interested.
“These here men want to help yuh, Johnny,” explained Uncle Andy. “But
before they can help yuh, they’ve got to hear yore story.”
“I have no story,” declared Johnny stonily. “Nothin’ to tell.”
Hashknife moved in close to the bars, and Johnny looked at him, rather
defiantly, at first. Their eyes met for several moments, and Johnny
turned away, looking at his mother.
“Johnny, you ought to talk to him,” she said quietly.
Johnny looked at Hashknife again, and a weak smile twisted his lips for
a moment. Then he said, “All right, what do I talk about?”
“That ring, Johnny,” replied Hashknife. “We’ve got to know what yuh done
with it.”
Johnny shook his head. “It won’t do a bit of good,” he said. “It can’t
do any good now--it’s too damned late, Hartley.”
“Why is it too late?” asked Hashknife.
“Because Chiquita Morales is dead. Oren Blakely is dead, too.”
Uncle Andy said, “What did Chiquita--”
“Wait!” interrupted Hashknife. “Johnny can tell us--in his own way. Go
ahead, Johnny.”
Johnny gnawed at his lower lip for several moments, his eyes bleak.
Hashknife noticed that his hands were clenched behind him. Finally he
said:
“I traded that ring, to Chiquita Morales for a pinto horse. She wanted
the ring--I wanted that _pintado_. I--I was goin’ to tell Nell about it.
I dunno--mebbe Nell was a little jealous of Chiquita. She didn’t mean
anythin’ to me, Chiquita didn’t. There wasn’t any bill-of-sale--nothin’
to prove I traded. I was goin’ to get the pinto--and that’s all there
was to it.
“She wanted the ring to wear to a dance--so I let her have it. I was
down at Agua Verde that night, but I left there about seven o’clock. On
the way back, at a little rancho, there was a lot of music, so I stopped
to see what was goin’ on. It was a dance--a pretty wild dance, too.
Chiquita was there with Oren Blakely. Everybody was drunk, except
Chiquita, and there had been several fist-fights. Oren was drunk, too.
Chiquita wanted to go home--to get away from the place. Well, at least,
I’m a gentleman--I hope. We got Oren on a horse, and all three of us
came back across the line. Oren wasn’t too drunk then; so we put him on
the road to the Circle H, and I took Chiquita home.”
“And you was afraid that Nell would find it out?” asked Uncle Andy.
“Yeah, I was,” admitted Johnny. “Maybe I had no business doin’
it--takin’ her home, and all that--but I did.”
“Was she wearin’ the ring at the dance?” asked Hashknife.
“No, she wasn’t,” replied Johnny. “I asked her where it was, and she
told me she left it at home, because it was too big, and she was afraid
she’d lose it.”
“I’ll explain it to Nell,” offered Aunt Judy.
“Thanks, Ma--but I’d rather tell her. I didn’t take Chiquita to the
dance--didn’t even know she was there--and when she explained that she
was scared to stay there--what could I do?”
“Couldn’t anybody at that rancho testify that you were there, instead of
robbin’ a bank?” asked Uncle Andy.
“I doubt it, ’cause I didn’t mix in the dance. And, anyway,” said
Johnny, “nobody knows what time of night the bank was robbed. Ed Weed
didn’t know. They woke him up, but he never seen a clock.”
“I heard that Chiquita was to marry Frenchy Arnett,” said Hashknife.
“_Quien sabe?_” Johnny smiled sourly. “Chiquita liked to have fun. She
asked me to not tell Frenchy. I wouldn’t, anyway. It wasn’t my
business.”
“Johnny,” said Hashknife, “do you know of anybody who hated Oren Barkley
enough to shoot him? Maybe somebody who knew he took Chiquita to a
dance.”
Johnny shook his head. “No, I don’t, Hartley. Frenchy was supposed to be
keepin’ steady company with Chiquita. Frenchy was either in Northgate,
or on his way up there, when she was killed. Oren wasn’t quarrelsome. In
fact, that night was the first time I had ever seen him drunk. Oh, he
took a drink now and then, I suppose, but not enough to affect him.”
“Well, much obliged, Johnny,” said Hashknife, shaking hands through the
bars.
“Yo’re welcome, Hartley. Glad to have met yuh--and you, too, Stevens.”
He kissed his mother between the bars, and they went out. Aunt Judy took
hold of Hashknife’s shoulders and turned him around on the sidewalk,
looking straight into his eyes.
“I just wanted to find out why Johnny talked to you,” she said as he
smiled slowly at her.
“Don’t be silly, Ma,” grinned Uncle Andy.
“I’m not silly,” she said quietly, and turned away. Hashknife patted her
on the shoulder.
“I dunno how it was done--but it was,” Uncle Andy said. “Hashknife, we
want you and Sleepy to make the ranch yore home. We’ve got room out
there, and we’d sure admire havin’ yuh stay there.”
“Later--maybe,” said Hashknife. “Thank yuh both a lot.”
“Make it when yuh can; we’ll be lookin’ for yuh.”
* * * * *
Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, was a little amazed over the willingness of
Johnny Davidson to talk to a stranger. And he was also a bit curious as
to just why Andy Davidson had brought these two strangers to the jail
for the conference. He asked Johnny, who thought it over for several
moments.
“I don’t know, Nick,” he said. “Mother and Dad brought ’em in here, and
Hartley, the tall one asked me questions.”
“Which you answered,” said the sheriff dryly.
“That’s right, I did--but don’t ask me why, Nick. It is kinda funny.
Somethin’ about him--I dunno what.”
Pete Morales and his wife came to town, and the sheriff asked Pete if he
knew anything about Chiquita trading a pinto horse to Johnny Davidson
for a turquoise ring.
Pete shook his head sadly. “_Mi amigo_,” he said wearily, “I know
notheeng, excep’s Chiquita ees died. I see no reeng.”
“Did you know that Chiquita went to the dance in Mexico with Oren
Blakely?”
Again the little Mexican shook his head. “No,” he said huskily. “I tell
her, ‘Kip to hell from those dance at Miguel’s rancho. Bad pippil down
there.’ But I theenk she go anyway.”
Nick McGarvin went back to his office. Frenchy hadn’t showed up yet. The
death of Chiquita Morales was a terrible blow to the little deputy--and
he was drinking too much.
Sam Hack and his only remaining cowboy, Gus Staley, came over to the
sheriff’s office. Hack was a tall, gaunt man, with deep-set eyes, long
arms and huge, bony hands. Hack was really a newcomer to the Dancing
Devil range, having bought the NK spread from the bank, which had it on
a foreclosure, and registered his own brand. Oren Blakely had been one
of his two men. Gus Staley was rather a nondescript cowpoke, who liked
liquor and cards.
Hack wanted action. He said, “Nick, you’ve got to do somethin’ about the
murder of Oren. Yuh can’t let things like that go--”
“Suggest somethin’,” replied the harassed sheriff. “It’s easy to talk
about, Sam. Nobody knows why Oren headed for Northgate, nobody knows who
wanted to shoot him. Everyone seemed to like him. If you know anythin’
else, let me know.”
“Well,” replied Hack soberly, “I wish I could, Nick. Has Johnny Davidson
talked yet?”
“Johnny talked this mornin’, Sam. He wouldn’t talk to me, and he
wouldn’t talk to his ma and pa--but he talked to a stranger.”
“Meanin’ what?” asked Hack flatly.
The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno, Sam--I can’t figure it.”
And then the sheriff told them what Johnny told Hashknife.
Sam Hack and Gus Staley listened closely while the sheriff related
Johnny’s story, and the sheriff finished with:
“I asked Johnny why he told all this to Hartley, when he wouldn’t talk
with anybody else, and he said he didn’t know.”
“Kinda funny,” remarked Hack. He turned to Staley, “Gus, did you know
that Oren took Chiquita to that dance?”
Staley shook his head. “Oren didn’t talk much,” he replied. “He was
drunk when he got back to the ranch that night, but he didn’t say where
he’d been, I figured he got drunk here.”
“Gus,” said the sheriff, “you’ve been with Oren a long time. If I
remember right, you came here with him. Do you know anybody who hated
him enough to shoot him?”
“Hell, no!” snorted Gus Staley.
“Well, there yuh are,” said the sheriff, shrugging helplessly. “Gus has
been bunkin’ the man all this time, and even _he_ don’t know who’d shoot
him.”
“Who is Hartley and Stevens?” asked Hack.
The sheriff smiled. “I rode all the way down here from Northgate with
them two,” he said, “and all I know is that they’ve each got two legs
and two arms. Yuh might ask Andy Davidson--he seemed to know ’em.”
“Just a couple driftin’ cowpokes, eh?”
“You name ’em,” replied the sheriff. “They came in on the freight-train,
got off at Northgate, just before Oren climbed on and got shot. They had
their saddles along with ’em, and I know they bought two horses at the
feed corral.”
“Well,” yawned Hack, “we’ve got to be driftin’, Nick. When is the
inquest?”
“Tomorrow mornin’, Doc Talbert told me. You’ll be here?”
“Yeah. After all, Oren was one of my boys.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy sprawled on chairs under the porch of the hotel.
Hashknife, as relaxed as a cat, smoked thoughtfully, paying little
attention to activity on the street.
“How much of Johnny Davidson’s story do yuh reckon a jury would
believe?” inquired Sleepy.
“Very little, Sleepy.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Certainly, I believe him. With all the lies possible, he told a story
that can’t possibly help him. The girl is dead--and he didn’t have to
tell the truth about the ring. The kid’s honest.”
“Yo’re like Aunt Judy--everybody is all right.”
Sam Hack and Gus Staley came past the porch and went on up the street.
Both of them looked curiously at Hashknife and Sleepy. Frank Olds, the
hotel-keeper, standing in the doorway of the hotel, waved a greeting to
them, and he said to the two cowboys:
“That’s the feller Oren Blakely worked for--Sam Hack. He’s the tall one;
the other is Gus Staley.”
“Is Hack an old-timer down here?” asked Hashknife.
“No, he came here a little over a year ago and bought out the NK. Bought
it from the bank, I reckon--they held a big mortgage, and Kinney, the
owner, couldn’t make the grade.”
“You knew Blakely?” asked Sleepy.
“Yeah. Nice boy, too. I know most everybody. Growed up here.”
“I hear,” remarked Hashknife lazily, “that the bank bust hurt folks
pretty hard around here.”
“Busted some of ’em. Yuh take Andy Davidson and Ed Frawley, they got hit
awful hard. Had most all their money in the bank, I’ve been told.
Davidson just sold a train-load of cows, and they tell me he lost every
cent in the bank. Frawley got hit about as hard. They ain’t
kickin’--’cause they ain’t that kind.”